A Lesson in Surrender
by PaolaAdara
Summary: There are too many sunrises and not enough sunsets, and riding off to what the world has not enough of is not always part of the choices.


Title: A Lesson in Surrender (1/1)

Author: Paola

Disclaimer:_ A Lesson in Surrender_ is based on characters and situations that belong to Sotsu Agency, Bandai Studios, and TV Asashi (and other production affiliates that have the right of ownership). No money is being made, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Considerations: Similarities to other stories/events/passages are purely coincidental unless otherwise cited.

_**A Lesson in Surrender**_

_Yesterday we were an 'us' but today we're you and me_

_Yesterday it was sex and sweat but today it's an empty bed_

The air carries the tune slowly across the room like a slow breeze typical of a lazy April afternoon, leaving dust in its wake and fading footprints facing the other way. The last words have been delivered hours ago, have rung in her ears more oppressively than lacquered nails scratching on a blackboard surface, and she struggles to keep in memory the touch of his lips, the feel of his skin, even as her heart begs to forget.

The room is much too warm for comfort, the air is stale, and sweat rolls off her skin, travelling from her neck to her shoulders and down her back, only to be absorbed by the scratchy material of the off-white blanket she has wrapped around herself. She keeps her gaze outside the window, towards the clear skies that seem to mock her with their calmness, and she detachedly listens to the creak of the floorboards caused by the rowdy children in the next room. For a moment, she feels like crying, and she takes a deep, cleansing breath to rid her of the illusion that that can make her feel better.

Her attention is slowly drawn towards the filthy door that leads outside as she hears the rambunctious laughter of the children now running in the hallway, harsh whispers across the floor that tell her she doesn't belong, that tell her to go away. In an act of futile defiance, she scans the room she's in, slowly, deliberately: creaky, unpolished floorboards; nondescript walls with peeling paint; a twin-sized bed opposite a plain vanity table upon which the radio sits; and another vandalized door leading to a small privy she's never going to use. This is the last thing that describes the only relationship they have now — crumbling…falling into ruin. Neglected. Soot from a fire that once burned strongly, and the ash is bitter on the surface of the earth.

The CD catches a scratch, and the song replays the chorus with grating pauses and skips. Taunting, like a child with a lollipop harassing another who doesn't have one, or, for that matter, can't have one. It draws tears the same way it draws blood — with a dull knife, twisted to hurt but never to kill, and the child holding the lollipop stick is also holding the hilt of the blade.

_Yesterday…'us' but today…you and me_

… _sex and sweat…an empty bed_

Having won the battle against the urge to cry, she sighs and feels sluggishness penetrate her bones, seep so deep that she thinks the air she's breathing is simply not enough. She's tired, she realizes. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. And as she moves to gather her clothes lying on the floor, numbness begins to set in, and the touch of his lips and the feel of his skin are now nothing more than ghostly caresses that tingle lifelessly on her skin.

The heart has begged to forget, and the mind is giving in.

She buttons up her shirt, zips her jeans, and tucks her hair under a baseball cap, and in this remote town embraced by a constant lazy air as it morphs into a ghost town, nobody will ever recognize her. The Representative of Orb should not be out in the middle of nowhere meeting with a man who colored her life in the past but has now gone and left a part of her unfinished, bereft of even the dullest of paints that could have at least born the likeliness of life, no matter how still.

He's torn her canvas even before she can finish her sunset.

Downstairs, her loyal driver opens the door of a rented car for her, and she climbs in without a word, and as they drive the length of highway back to the city, the song playing on the radio fills her with a sense of finality. Fate has found its least favored instrument, and its name is Cagalli. Her strings are brittle and they produce a sharp twang that stings when played.

_Yesterday we were an 'us' but today—_

"Turn it off."

"Yes, Ms. Attha."

And the only sound in the car she can hear is her own breathing, and the fucking song the radio doesn't play anymore but is still playing non-stop in her head, like a broken record, a scratched CD like the one playing in the room a while ago. The lollipop is held in front of her face, the knife turned, and the sound of crying is anything but faint in her ears.

She bleeds just a little bit more.

She used to be so vibrant, so optimistic, so loud and youthful that when she closed her eyes, she dreamt of pirates and redskins, of fairy dust and lost boys, but the Cagalli now she sees in the mirror everyday and every night is someone the whole world is unfamiliar with: a stranger in her own skin, and the paintbrush she holds in her hand feels even stranger now that the orange is dripping and there is no more surface to paint on. There is no sunset, and every morning she struggles to reconstruct her mask — a red on the cheeks, a sparkle in the eyes, a gloss on the lips, a twinkle in her laughter, and the people are none the wiser. They don't notice the rust that has begun to eat at the corners.

Once her father told her that she loved too dearly, and she answered then that everything and everyone should be loved wholly, that or not be loved at all, just one or the other, no grey areas, and she did love completely, so completely that now she continues to love even when her whole being is telling her to stop.

The scenery outside bleeds from the brown of the dusty town to the green of the country side, and the road stretches infinitely before them, deceptively infinitely, and she refuses to be lulled into a false sense of serenity that the journey will never end, will never deliver her back to a life that's so exhausting to live. She's got three hours of travel time, three hours before the cap she's wearing is changed to hairclips and hairsprays, before her sneakers are changed to glittering, bejeweled heels, before the jeans and shirt she's wearing are thrown in the laundry and replaced by silk and lace or dark, dark taffeta that further alienates her real self but draws in the nobles and other representatives. And she thinks she needs more stardust because the sparkle in her eyes is dulling. A new bottle, maybe she can buy later, and then get a lollipop for her troubles, too.

She has three hours to think her actions through and evaluate her feelings, and hopefully, come up with a decision that will save her from falling.

Before there was a hero to save her from her nightmares, but now there is none, and the only savior she can rely on is herself. Ironic because she herself is a victim.

She closes her eyes to think, not to sleep because she can't afford that luxury, not yet. Not until her three hours is over. So she thinks. Thinks until all the lines are a blur and every color bleeds into one. Thinks until she can't decide anymore if there's a way out. Thinks until she's fooling herself because her thoughts aren't a real conscious effort but a _zig_ and a _zag_ with no directions. Thinks until she's dreaming, until the uselessness of her endeavor washes over her and leaves her bare.

Her canvas is shredded, her sunset is no more, and the lollipop is an impossibility.

The knife slowly turns.

_Yesterday we were an 'us' but today we're you and me…_

And the song continues to play in her head.

_-fin_

Reference/s:

Pirates, redskins, fairy dust, lost boys – _Peter Pan _by J.M. Barrie


End file.
